


Anatomy of The Haunted

by ashesashesshackles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesashesshackles/pseuds/ashesashesshackles
Summary: It was the Sorting when you first saw him, and you were filled with anger as you watched the boy climb up nervously to be Sorted, a Potter in miniature. You were relieved and angry that it was only Potter you could see until you see those green eyes. Severus Snape character study.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Anatomy of The Haunted

**'three'**

Do you believe in ghosts?

You have seen them float in the castle, talk to mediocre students who have impertinent questions about their existence, usually after a death. All of those questions, a desperate measure for a closure, a closure you will never have. You feel your lip curl when the ghosts talk of 'going on' after death, you know that is not true. But you wouldn't pin it on the ignorance of Hogwarts ghosts, because, really, how would they know those who are dead never truly left, never truly 'gone on' as they so eloquently put it. The ghosts you are talking about are the ones who haunt you every moment if you let them. Those are the ghosts you are talking about, not a pale imitation of the- _ dearly _ -departed.

_ (Alright, Snivellus?) _

_ (I'd wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus.) _

You have never visited their grave, the finality of _ her _ death, the finality of her name being linked with  _ his _ even in death is more than you can bear. But their ghosts have haunted you even before their deaths. You keep seeing pale imitations of them in your years of teaching - and it almost always is followed by a pang of guilt, and inexplicable anger. Anger at yourself, _always_ at yourself. You sneer at them - these pale imitations, reducing one flock of students to tears. You don't care. Such crude imitations of the departed, you wonder if your life is an elaborate joke.

How long have they haunted you? You don't know.

**'one'**

_ (I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!) _

_ (But you call everyone of my birth, Mudblood, Severus, why should I be any different?) _

Was it the time you had the Mark branded to your skin? Was that the first time you heard them whispering in your ear? The ghosts who will taunt you for the rest of your life?

_ Of course _ they would find it in themselves to ruin your moment of glory, the first time the Mark had been burned to your skin by the end of the Dark Lord's wand.

You had a triumphant smile behind your Mask, the power around the Dark Lord's presence, his willingness to teach the Dark Arts to his faithful, to the followers have proven themselves, such an impossibly seductive idea. You can _ learn _ it. Learn the Dark Arts, the ever changing, mutating power that you had tried to learn yourself ever since you had discovered it, you will know it from the man who has pushed and experimented with boundaries of magic. The Mark is a shiny red burn, raised on your skin, and your fingers trace it as if to believe its reality on your skin before you kiss the Dark Lord's feet and back away, smiling.

It is you who has the power now, and you think of your father, the useless violent Muggle fool. No more, _ no more _ will you bear those petty humiliations. You will not be like your mother, who refuses to do anything even though she had magic, who cowered when the fool yelled. You loved her, but you resented her weaknesses. Now, standing in presence of the Dark Lord, in black robes, a mask and Mark vivid on your arm, you are neither of them- your mother or your father. You are also not the boy who searched his parents cupboard for clothes, choosing your mother's androgynous clothes because you hated the fool so much that his clothes demand a set of gratitude, a feeling of in debt you don't want to feel for the violent man. You are above them, a powerful, impressive figure...but a loss twinges you that takes away the glory of the moment.

_ (You have chosen your way, and I have chosen mine.) _

You briefly think of how one good thing of your life has been taken away by Potter. To lose her to Potter! To Potter who gets everything without working for it like you do! To Potter who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, who knew nothing and will know nothing of hardships of life as you have known them!

You regain your sense of savage pleasure when you watch Regulus Black hold out his arm, bowing his head reverentially, knowing you could throw this in Sirius Black's face, a man you hated as much as Potter. You smile knowing Sirius Black's brother is lost to him forever, the way they took Lily Evans from you. 

_ (James Potter's voice echoes in his head, a Head Boy - what a cruel joke- standing outside Dumbledore's office. "Whose side are you on, Snivellus?" _

_ "Surely you do not imagine me fighting on a side that includes you, Potter. Here I thought your head could not grow any larger.." _

_ "This fight has become bigger than the Hogwarts grounds. I suppose you are being too weighed down by that nose of yours to see it that clearly. Glad we straightened this out, yeah?" _

_ "How touching. Only you have the gall to imagine yourself as the hero after all these years, Potter.") _

You see James Potter's judgemental eyes as Dark Lord rises to address his newly minted Death Eaters, and you grit your teeth, not letting your hatred for your father, for James Potter, for Sirius Black, your contempt and fear of that _werewolf_ , your love for your mother and your resentment of her weaknesses, your love for Lily Evans and your resentment of her choices taint this moment. Your shoulders straighten, your head bows, hoping that these ghosts would no longer weigh you down.

**'two'**

_ ("I know Potter is an arrogant toerag, I don't need you to tell me that. But Mulciber and Avery's humor is just evil, Sev. I don't understand how you can be friends with them") _

After the grief of her death passes, you are possessed with a clinical numbness that tries to hold in your guilt-raw and fresh,your regrets,your pain like the glass that holds in a particularly dangerous potion.

_ ["Oops" the boy's work shatters on your desk. "Another zero then, Potter".] _

Perhaps it was the Sorting when you first saw him, and you were filled with anger as you watched the boy climb up nervously to be Sorted, a Potter in miniature. You were relieved and angry that it was only Potter you could see. But when the boy stares at you in bewilderment and anger in one of your classes, you see those green eyes, so like hers, not a pale imitation of hers, but  _ exactly _ her eyes, you almost stagger with your loss as you look away from them.

So one by one, you'll erase her rashness, her vindictive anger, so that her sweetness and kindness remains as sticky residue of the memory you have of her. Armed by this, it is easier to see the boy as Potter's son than hers, then the pain, regret, guilt and loss won't attack you but when you catch a glimpse of those green eyes, you know these seven years are not going to be simple. Not for you, and you'll make sure it isn't for him either.

_ ( "What has he done to you?" _

_ "Well it is more the fact he exists, if you know what I mean") _

**'four'**

You are running away from the worst crime you have committed, mercy killing of the man you respected the most in the world.  _ It is over, it is over _ , _ and you are alone, it is over, and you are alone, it is over, _ you tell yourself. You should feel relief that Dumbledore's master plan is now in operation, it has kicked into high gear after his death. But when you see the boy sprawled in grass, contempt fills you at the boy's foolish revenge, the boy who knows  _ nothing,  _ and you say with certain relish, "Your father wouldn't attack me if it wasn't four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?"

_ ( He didn't want to touch her - he never did. He was always so wary of it, so conscious of it. So conscious of him being that Snape boy from Spinner's End. So when he gripped her arm to drag her away from the mess of the fight between Order of Phoenix and his own - he made sure he was gentle. She seemed to follow quite obediently - considering he was wearing a mask. Did she know it was him? He let her go quite quickly when they were out of the crosshairs. "Lily, leave," he told her. She was watching him, and there was anger in her face at the recognition of his voice. "You have no idea what's in store for any of you." _

_ "So you are one of them then?" she was shaking, he realised, with fury. This was not the time for whatever this was about. _

_ "I told you-" he began but she cut him off and hurled words at him that he knew she meant to hurt him: "I am not going anywhere without my husband!" _

_ And he needn't have bothered. And then his resentment tumbled out of his lips. Astonishing, how little control he had. He hadn't seen her in a while, after all: "Congratulations on the wedding. I know your position now. But know this, you are marked by the Dark Lord himself, you and your husband have refused to join his ranks and continue to fight against him. We all know the Dark Lord is not forgiving. Keep this up, Lily Potter, and you might as well start praying for your husband while you are at it." _

_ "I am a Mudblood, remember? I have always been marked for death, incidentally, by people you keep company these days. So, Snivellus, if there is anyone I should be praying for, it will be for you”) _

Then you see them, the green eyes looking up at him in rage and contempt, copied into the face of James Potter, your loss throttles you as the boy spits in his rage, invoking the memory of a man both  _ she _ and the boy fiercely loved and he hated, "Kill me then, kill me like you killed him, you coward!"

Or was it the memory of the man you just killed? The one you and the boy loved and respected?

_ You don’t know _ . The boy's face abruptly merges with his mother's, then his father and you have to make it  _ stop _ as your wand slashes viciously through the air, "DON'T CALL ME A COWARD!"

These ghosts know nothing about you to make judgement. _ Nothing.  _ So when you run with the Death Eaters, her voice whispers along with the wind in your ear, reciting the crimes you have committed over the span of your life.

**'five'**

When the boy wasn't around, to arrogantly strut about the castle, you could remember her imperfections in peace. You could remember her temper, her need to be right, her embarrassment when she is wrong-

_ ("I can't believe you. From arrogant bullying toerag to this. You used to be smart - isn't that what they made you a Head Girl for? What changed?" _

_ She looked at him, quiet. Even embarrassed. At least she had the grace to look embarrassed - although it did nothing for the all consuming betrayal he felt. "I just love him, that's all.") _

You get angry that somehow, even in the castle that is your home, that has been your home the way Spinner's End never has been, all of your memories of her here are somehow tied to Potter. As if Potter's irrepressible presence has somehow tainted it.

_ ("Go on, go out with me and I'll never lay a wand on old Snivelly again.") _

So you think of Spinner's End, the river where she used to wait for you, both of you laughing, a refuge from that miserable home, she was innocence and childish sweetness, Lily Evans before Potter, Lily Evans unblemished by Potter's arrival. It eases you that you _ remember,  _ and are furious that you are supposed to recall your surroundings as the foolish Carrows point at graffiti-ed walls and grunt something, possibly expecting you to wave your wand and erase it. You walk away, letting  _ Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting _ shine on the wall, the fire in torch brackets illuminating them.

**'six'**

The quiet of the forests somehow calm your mind, and you watch your Patronus, standing, waiting. She was beautiful magic, and you are relieved that you can conjure something of beauty, something whose beauty surpasses the potions you make, the spells you create. You are struck by memory how very beautiful she was in life, something you had not thought of in a long time.

The boy emerges from the other side of the forest, crying, "Wait!" as if he was asking the doe not to go, and just for a moment,  _ just _ for a moment, you understand this boy's longing, so like yours in its anatomy, so different from yours in its tenuous thread of emotions on the boy's face. You leave when Weasley surfaces, with sword in hand and the boy in the other, dragged from the icy water. Your task now over, you head back to the castle, and again, you are struck by the irony that you had sent your beautiful doe to a Potter in miniature.

You wonder how long both the Potters would continue to haunt you,because, inexplicably, you are tired.

**'seven'**

_ ("You are being highly ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there-" _

_ "You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friend's too! You are not going to-I won't let you-" _

_ " _ **_Let_ ** _ me? Let me?") _

The last time you thought you would die here, you were pulled back by James Potter, who had subverted your fate then. And now you lay here, bleeding, fatally wounded by the Dark Lord and his snake for that wand, and you hadn't even completed the last task Dumbledore had given you- you had failed Dumbledore, the only person in the world who knew you, who you respected beyond any other you knew. You had to tell the boy-the _ boy  _ that he is marked for death.

The boy appeared, looking white, shocked and horrified- he no doubt overheard the reason you had been left to die.

_ (James Potter's face was white, horrified, shocked as he yelled from behind him, "STOP! TURN AROUND, SNAPE!" _

_ You couldn't move as you stared, transfixed, knowing you were about to die when you saw the werewolf at the end of the tunnel, drool on its incisors... _

_ James Potter's hand pulled you back, throwing you behind his body and suddenly you remember that you can move, that your legs can move. James Potter looks at the werewolf struggling to inch towards them, "RUN SNAPE!" he pushes you forward to the Whomping Willow entrance and you crawl out, and vomit on the side of the tree. You are violently shaking when you see James Potter limp out with scratches on his leg. He looks furious to see you there, scared and shaking by the tree. You can't summon enough anger to look back at him - you are just terrified. All you feel is fear. Fear in a way that your father never managed to create in you. A werewolf, Remus Lupin, a werewolf. Sirius Black sent you down here...  _

_ James Potter takes you by arm, almost as if he wants to throw you away from the tree and yells, "I told you to run! GO! GO AWAY FROM HERE!") _

"Take them " you whisper, the boy must know Dumbledore's plan for him, it rests on this boy now. Your death is coming in sure measured steps, the Potters slowly fading away and a calm peace stealing over your soul, and you say desperately, willing to see what you never wanted to see in this boy, because you can rest now, you can rest now after all these years, the ghosts that have haunted you can all rest now.

"Look... at... me."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one after reading Deathly Hallows. It's quite an old fic from when I wanted to form an understanding of him. There are perhaps bits I might revise if I wrote something like this now, but baby-me had more nuance than I thought.


End file.
